Monday, February 28

Febrile

I could spend forever doing nothing. Right now my sense of significance is high, so I won’t say anything about that. This is a version of my bulletproof. I’m ill so I sleep a lot. My medication makes me do so. These semi-drugged, sleep clogged days are a very different kind of respite. While I’m awake I’m not obliged to do anything. My studies are suffering tremendously but my pattern of studying is such that unless I want to study, I simply won’t. While I’m awake I can *listen* to music, which I haven’t been doing for a while, music had been background noise. I’m reading a paragraph or so every three hours, sleeping in the middle or just playing with M where my mind just zones out. I’m very conscious of my body, which at the moment feels abused, tired and dirty; quite literally worn out. I’m sleeping so much because it feels like my body actually needs to sleep. Every time I wake up after a three hour nap I don’t feel refreshed, I feel a little better, a little more real and the need for more after a while. I feel like smoking. While I’m asleep my mind is over stimulated for whatever reason and my sleep is fitful but deep. There are too many images there, random plots which make little sense but involve frenzied activity. And when I wake up my skin feels cool invariably (I sleep in my sweatshirt under my quilt with fever). Now if I only had that fever pome Rohit wrote on the spot.

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About Me

Murphy, the patron saint of petulant pretty boys everywhere, the compulsive rubber of her face into soft kitten bellies, the debilitated drinker of spirits, one in heart and soul with chinese food, writes predominantly about herself and believes that it really ought to stop.